Mr DeWitt
by ForThoseWhoRun
Summary: Elizabeth's thoughts on Booker. Elizabeth/Booker drabble
1. Chapter 1

He was tall.

Quite a bit taller then her actually.

To be completely honest, he dwarfed her. Not just with size, but with presence. No matter where they went or the people they were around, he always seemed like the largest thing in the room – even when he _clearly_ was not.

He knew it too, and he threw it around just to make sure others did as well. Danger was an after thought to him.

Or maybe he was just careless.

She concluded he simply extruded masculinity, coarse and pungent masculinity. A true "Mans" man, as one might put it. Although, that still seemed too mild a descriptor for him. He was much more – much worse.

A ruffian, a thug, a scoundrel, a thief.

A _killer._

A lot of words fit, but none worked themselves off the tongue better than that.

He waded though throngs of men like a breeze through an open window; almost effortless, indifferent.

He was certainly no ordinary man. Ordinary men didn't slaughter dozen of others in their wake. Although, to be truthful, Elizabeth wasn't too certain what _ordinary_ was when it came to men. She had met very few, yet she knew he was very different. He could almost be called a breath of fresh air, if one considered that appropriate.

She did not.

But it wasn't just his penchant for violence - she could look past that; there was something more about him - something deeper beneath the cold scared surface.

Sure, bullets seemed to avoid him more than he evaded them – their paths seemingly bending around a fixed space around him. Vigor's perhaps? In a city littered with genetic mutating brews, such things didn't feel so out of place.

No, it wasn't just a few tricks. Something else kept her fixated on this man.

It was the way he worked. The way he _moved_.

Maybe it was an odd thing to focus on - given the grotesque nature of his line of work - but it repulsed and captivated her all the same. While she wouldn't call him elegant, he had a skilled finesse no one else could replicate. A hardened edge that set him above it all, carrying them to each new task with such fluidity it astonished her.

It dazzled her, in fact.

In his own way, he was a true showman. Blazing paths of brilliant reds, whites, and blues with each and every strong, ardent step. His drive, his very soul, rocked Columbia to its core.

No matter how hopeless each predicament felt to Elizabeth, however many men or whoever faced them, he was just faster than the rest; just strong enough – just at the right place at the right time, to see them through it.

It was as if he simply inhaled circumstance and exhaled pure luck.

And all of it was for her.

That thought should have left her frightened, but mostly, she just felt flustered. She had no idea his true intentions, or what it might have been that he was after. She wasn't even sure she _wanted_ to know, worrying it would spoil the whole damn picture – as cliché as it might've been.

It was almost comical, their situation.

She was the damsel trapped in the tower, rescued by the heroic hero. If you could call Booker a hero. Hero's didn't do half the things he did. Or at least not without some difficult moral dilemma facing them.

He wasn't much like the men in her books, those white knights.

He had his moments. Hell, he could even be charming, once you peaked through that macho façade. Maybe she'd even consider him dashing - in a roguish kind of way.

Perhaps he had a rugged appeal to him that a lady might find enchanting.

Not that _she_ did.

Besides, he was quite older than her, and she was sure he had someone waiting for him.

Not that it mattered.

"So, Mr. DeWitt, is there a woman in your life?"

Elizabeth told herself she was merely curious.


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth wondered if she could ever love a man like Booker.

Nothing seemed to hold him down; not armies, no machines, no _man_. No, nothing kept Booker where he didn't want to be. He ran with the wind, and she was grateful that the currents had swept them to together. She scoffed at the idea of a woman being able to accomplish what all others could not.

Yet she toyed with the idea, let it roll around her thoughts until it built itself a sustainable thread of possibilities – ones which Elizabeth could not help but long to explore.

But she knew she shouldn't. Love was an abstract concept she knew only in books. There was so much else going on that required her attention. Other matters which could not be put aside.

The feelings weren't new, but they burned brighter then they ever had before.

There was so much anger. So much hurt and loss. So many emotions, swirling in turmoil inside of her, she felt as if she could burst. She had no direction, no place to vent such frustrations. Her mind was a mess, a tangled web of mixed temperaments layering atop one another.

Because of this, she mostly believed her feelings towards him could be some coping mechanism. She feared she was only latching onto the closest thing she could find that was not her father; and at the same time the _furthest_ thing from him. Did she only feel such attachment to him because he was the only person who cared?

Or, acted like he cared at least. She couldn't tell, things in this city were never as they seemed.

Booker.

He had wanted to sell her off; He _lied_ to her, left her in the hands of the prophet for months.

But he also _saved_ her. _He came back for her_. He risked everything to take her away from Comstock. Twice.

They hadn't known each other long, but they had been through a lot. Elizabeth still couldn't grasp her feelings towards her savoir. Maybe he was only paying off a debt; maybe it was for selfish reasons. She had learned to not trust so easily.

In the end, she wasn't sure she cared anymore. Columbia had changed Elizabeth, for better or worse, there was no undoing what they had done - what _she_ had done.

She still wondered how he could handle it all.

There was an innate sense of self-preservation in Booker that worried Elizabeth. He constantly pushed himself, forced his way through all that thick black gun smoke, just to make it to the other side alive – just to do it all again. She didn't know how to feel about him, but she knew she didn't want to lose him.

She didn't want him to _leave_ her. _She didn't want to be without him_.

He was not an admirable man, not even a _good_ man. But then again, Elizabeth knew she wasn't either, The blood Was the only thing she could wash away. Memories were trickier.

She pushed them down, as deep as she could. Morality would fall second to the wrath she would show Comstock.

She had to, she _needed_ to end it. She needed to end his lies, end his iron grip on her. She needed to end _him_.

Of all people, she thought booker would understand. He had seen what she had, been through the tower and the lab; seen all the gruesome things done to her, and the people beneath the prophet's fiery fist.

But he seemed to want to do what all others did.

To stop her.

She needed him, but if she had to, she would do what she needed alone. Comstock needed to die.

Booker would understand – she would make him understand – that he was not the only one who could not be stopped.

Booker.

Feelings mixed and mingled as the name stopped short on her tongue. Emotions sparked, and fires rose. Nothing was so simple.

As he continued to try and convince her to fly to Paris, a hot flash of anger rolled over Elizabeth. She was _not_ some little girl, and he was _not_ her father. This had to be finished, she had to get to that damned air ship.

"Just drop me off if you want to. This isn't your problem booker." She seethed – briefly wondering how she'd manage to make it by herself.

Silence lingered for only a moment.

"I won't abandon you." His growled lowly

 _I won't abandon you_

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt a warm swelling in her chest.

Those words; spoken in almost a whisper, yet an absolute one. They struck at something deep inside Elizabeth, and she felt her stomach flutter at the thought of him actually meaning them. She knew In that moment, she trusted him again; she would trust him with everything she had.

All at once she felt her psyche shift, putting itself back into place, allowing her thoughts to clear. The features on his face weren't the hard lines they usually were – he looked so open, so concerned for what she thought of him.

She trembled slightly, when she finally met his gaze with her own.

"You wouldn't… Would you?" It was not a question.

No, Elizabeth could never love someone like Booker –

Because there would _never_ be anyone like Booker.

He was many things, not all of them good; But for now… he was hers.

She liked that thought.

She liked it a lot.

But they could deal with… _them_ , after they dealt with Comstock.

They'd have plenty of time after he was gone.


End file.
